Bluebird, Blackbird
by A.Quill
Summary: A Cardiothoracic surgeon with a mysterious military background joins House's team after he is ostracized by the rest of the hospital staff. Takes place at the midpoint of the third season. Would probably be considered AU/noncompliant.
1. Prologue

_This is, essentially, a reworking of my other piece, Houdini.__Please, do us all a favor and don't read that first.__As always, I own nothing, and reviews are lovely._

_Quill_

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It was snowing by the time the airport livery car pulled up to the front drive of the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. There was a pause, then a soft shudder as the driver threw the engine into neutral; in this sort of weather, he couldn't be bothered to risk gumming up the mechanics by killing the ignition completely. A click, a shove, and a scuffle later had him out of the car and on the sidewalk beside the rear passenger door. He made a grab for the handle, only to find that the door itself had long since been opened, swinging free on its hinge before the worn-shiny cuff of his shirt could so much as brush against it. Surprised, he stumbled backwards so quickly that the force of his near fall would have cracked his side view mirror had he not caught himself against the roof of his car, one palm spread open, wrinkled and sharp white against the shiny black background, just like the snowflakes that fluttered against his suit lapels.

The woman behind the door, hidden by a tinted window and a turned back, shifted her weight long enough to spare him a concerned glance before resuming her struggle with something still stuck within the car. Her shoulders shifted noticeably beneath her trench coat –black enough to match the car, crisp and clean enough to blend into the winter air –as she gave an assertive tug on whatever it was that wasn't coming free. Though the driver mumbled offers of assistance, then, when those were ignored, of advice, the woman refused to relinquish her task. It was only when she braced a heeled foot against the bottom of the car's threshold that the thing, or rather, things –a suitcase and a briefcase, both bulging to capacity –came free.

A laugh, a strange, triumphant cackle swirled out over the snow as the woman twirled her briefcase strap over one shoulder and hefted the luggage with her spare hand. She smiled at the driver, even though he had already slipped into shame at the strange noise he'd made a second before. He shrugged, scuffed his shoe, then clambered back into the idling car. The woman nudged the passenger door shut with her hip. It clicked closed in tandem with the sound of the driver's foot mashing the clutch. He pulled his own door back into place, let the car shudder into first, and eased back onto the road the same way that he eased onto the gas. The woman half-waved with the hand that held on to her briefcase. Her thumb was pinned under the strap, up by her shoulder, so it was just her fingers that fluttered, but the attempted gesture stood out against the bleak Jersey day almost as much as the woman's copper-colored hair.

The automatic doors flared open, and a darker-haired counterpart who wore a low-cut top under a pinstriped lab coat joined the woman on the sidewalk. She held a clipboard close to her chest and her hands shook with either cold or nerves –it was hard to say.

"Commander Gordon. I'm glad you made it despite the weather problems."

The red-haired woman raised an eyebrow behind silver framed glasses. Her eyes, blue and odd, flickered in a way that made the clipboard jangle all the more.

"It's Doctor Gordon."

"Of course. I-"

"Should we go inside? You're shaking. Cold?"

"A little, yes." The woman in the lab coat stepped back towards the automatic doors. They swished open obligingly. "You can put your luggage in my office."

Gordon didn't answer at first. Her neck was craned back, studying the building's façade and subjecting her lenses to an attack of snowflakes. When she found, or rather, didn't find, what she had been looking for, Gordon turned to offer a reply.

"Thank you, Doctor Cuddy, I would appreciate that."

The clipboard stood still. Cuddy smiled.

"I can introduce you to Doctor House after we've signed the papers."

Gordon nodded, her odd eyes darting upwards again. Cuddy waited for some sort of response, but when no acknowledgement -positive or negative –came, she turned and retreated into the familiar hospital lobby. Gordon followed, shedding a skin of snow as she went.


	2. Chapter 1

_Thank you, everyone, for the reviews & subscriptions. They are, as always, greatly appreciated._

_Again, I own nothing & no one._

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In another wing of the hospital, three doctors sat at a bare table inside a glass-walled office. They were, in no particular order, Chase, Cameron, and Foreman –the fellows of the Diagnostics Department. Today, though, the only diagnosing that they were doing was related to the muffled conversation that was seeping out from the shuttered-off room next door.

"It's got to be past an hour by now." Foreman spoke more to the table than his colleagues, but Cameron still turned her watch over. She shook her head.

"Ten more minutes." Her fingers idly flipped the face back over to the other side of her wrist. "I'm surprised he hasn't bolted yet, though."

"Why? I think it's going rather well," Chase offered. Foreman snorted. Cameron sighed. "For him, I mean," he snapped. "You know what I'm trying to say. The lawyers haven't show up, nobody's thrown a chair through the wall –it's not as bad as it could be."

"That's because it's just Wilson." Foreman pointed out. "It would've been a lot worse if Cuddy hadn't decided to use him as a filter."

"Like it matters." Cameron said. "He's still going to throw a tantrum when she brings the surgeon up."

"Better be soon," Chase said with a glance at his own watch. "The OR's booked for two o'clock."

"Honestly?" When Chase nodded by way of a response, Forman snorted. "What if he says no?"

"He can't say no –his job here's contingent on this procedure. And any others we need, for that matter."

"But what if he _can't_ do it? What if the tissue's too-"

"What if he's a she?" Cameron interrupted. She gestured out to the hallway. "Look."

"What?" Chase asked as both he and Foreman struggled to turn in their chairs. Sure enough, an eerily placid red-haired woman was trailing behind an irate-looking Cuddy as she stalked down the hallway towards the Diagnostics office. Chase spun back to face Cameron. "I thought Wilson said we were getting someone from the Navy." She scowled.

"Seriously?"

"There's already a low percentage of female surgeons, and if you cross that with the number of women in the armed forces –I'm not saying that it's impossible, just unlikely."

Cameron was on the verge of letting loose a scathing reply when Foreman turned back in his seat. "That's _Laura Gordon_." He said the name with an odd, whispered reverence that had his companions exchanging confused and slightly frightened looks. He sighed, then tried again. "She was a guest lecturer while I was at Columbia. The entire hospital turned out to hear her –it was insane. A mob scene."

"Did you get a seat?" Chase asked.

"Does it matter?" Cameron shot a pointed glance at the door. "They're here." Cuddy swept into the room. She was still clutching a clipboard, but this time her knuckles glowed from anger, not cold.

"Where is he?"

"In his office. Wilson's still in there, too." Cuddy was already halfway across the room by the time Foreman finished answering. Just before she ripped open the door to the adjourning office, she spun back and brandished her clipboard at Gordon, who was still hovering on the hallway threshold.

"That's Comand-Doctor Gordon, the surgeon," she said, "Introduce yourselves, then give her the patient's chart. Be nice." With that, she charged into the other room.

The fellows looked at each other with an unspoken echo of Cuddy's parting order hovering in their expressions. Gordon used the silence as an opportunity to step all the way into the room, carefully easing the door shut as she went.

"Don't be offended –you're the third group she's said that to since I've gotten here." She studied the room as she spoke, giving her voice a half-absent sound. Her eyes caught on the whiteboard and the blue folder propped in its marker tray. "That's the chart?"

"Yeah, it is. I've been the primary since the-" Chase hesitated "–since the last procedure."

"You're the intensivist, then." Gordon picked up the chart, flipped it open, and skimmed the first page. "Chase?"

"Yes. This is Cameron, and Foreman." Chase pointed to them both, and Gordon nodded.

"Immunology and neurology, or the other way 'round?"

"No, that's right." Cameron seemed tempted to reopen the conversation track that she and Chase had been on earlier, but thought better of it. It was likely, though, that Gordon wouldn't have answered as she was already immersed in the patient's documents.

"The problems with the mitral valve were brought on by a bought of endocardits –nothing else, correct?" The question came after a long bought of silent page flipping and caught all three of the doctors off guard. Foreman was the first to recover.

"Yes. He didn't have a history of heart trouble, and he wasn't on any medication that might've caused scarring or abnormalities."

"Then what drugs was this guy on?"

"Uh, well, we had him on a course of antibiotics for the-"

"I was talking about the surgeon." Gordon snapped the chart shut. "Is Cuddy going to be finished soon, or should I go scrub in now?"

"We have the OR at two?" What ought to have been a statement came out as more of a question, but Gordon didn't seem to care. Instead, she nodded at Chase, then directed her attention towards the inner office door.

"Is he always this-" She trailed off, shrugged. "I don't even know."

"Yes." The young doctors answered in unison. For a split second, Gordon seemed amused. All traces of cheer vanished, though, when House burst into the room followed closely by a quasi-entourage of Cuddy and Wilson.

"Captain on the deck! Ring the bells, let down the main sail –I want this conference table up to thirteen knots by oh-four-hundred. Step it up, double time!" He limped up to Gordon and gave a mock salute with his cane. "Vice Admiral. You're looking a little pale. I think you might have a nasty case of scurvy –or maybe it's the clap."

"It's Commander, actually." Gordon gave House a once over, taking in the stained band t-shirt, worn sneakers, stubbled face, and cane. She and Cuddy locked eyes over his shoulder. "Doctor Cuddy, I have a few questions about this arrangement."

"I think that it would be best if you discussed them with Doctor House." Cuddy began inching her way towards the exit. "I mean, you haven't even introduced yourselves yet. You should get to know each other first."

"We've met." Gordon ducked around House so that she could stand between Cuddy and the door. He stayed where he was.

"We have?"

"At a conference somewhere, I'm sure." She flipped open the chart and pushed it in front of the other woman. "Am I meant to be a replacement for him?" Gordon jabbed at a page. "Lewis. Is he still a member of your staff?"

"Of course." Cuddy looked between the chart, House, and her newest hire. "Why wouldn't he be?"

"Because he used a lawn mower in lieu of a scalpel."

"Excuse me?"

"Have you seen the post-op ultrasounds? The valve looks like ground beef. I'd say it's a miracle that this man isn't dead yet, but New Jersey's yearly quota of divine interventions have already been used to ensure that Lewis is able to keep his spot on this hospital's payroll."

"Oh my God!" Wilson exclaimed. He pointed at House. "That's practically _verbatim-_"

"I'm not surprised," House drawled in his best attempt to ignore Wilson, "Everyone knows that Lewis was an Army man. You know how the rivalries are."

"Shut up, House." Wilson was all but flailing now. "She's on your side!"

"I'm not taking –I just want to correct this." Gordon took a deep breath and shut the chart. "What should have been a simple procedure has grown into something quite a good deal more irritating, not to mention life-threatening." She turned to Chase. "I want you to move up the OR time. Tell them you're averting a malpractice suit. I don't know. Someone else ought to go prep the patient. I have no idea how that works here. Go do it. Please."

The three young doctors were all but out the door by the time Gordon choked out her parting 'please.' It was difficult to say whether their rapid departure was a result of her orders or nothing more than a burning desire to escape the swirl of tension that surrounded their administrator. House toyed with his cane as he watched them go.

"Way to rally the troops. You forgot the 'oooh-rah,' though. That's gonna be a big demerit."

"Aye, no excuse, _Captain_." Gordon tossed the patient file onto the conference table and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. "Permission to go scrub in?" House stared at Gordon, blinked twice, then limped off towards the coffee pot.

"Permission granted. Legal's on the way, if you feel like stopping in to make a complaint." Gordon nodded and left the room without another word. Cuddy was hot on her heels, leaving Wilson and House alone in the lounge. The oncologist stood in the middle of the room, staring first at the file, then at the door, and finally at his friend.

"You know, this could work."


End file.
